


It's History, It's Poetry

by BobSkeleton



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Gen, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-03-29 12:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19019713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobSkeleton/pseuds/BobSkeleton
Summary: This is The Mighty Boosh magical realism library AU fic that nobody asked for. Howard is a librarian who loves peace and order. Vince is a punk rocker with chaos in his wake. They bond over poetry and a mutual love of the little library where they meet.





	1. The First Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gigantic shout out to [blackmountainbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/profile) for being the best beta ever. They also get credit for the title. 
> 
> Additional kudos to [Ladadee195](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladadee195/pseuds/Ladadee195), [walkwithursus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus), and [A_Little_Boosh_Maid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Little_Boosh_Maid/pseuds/A_Little_Boosh_Maid)for their support.
> 
> This is my first fanfic in 11 years so don't judge me too harshly.

Howard slid his finger beneath the edge of the envelope, carefully prising it open without tearing it. Nervously, he unfolded the letter and read:

> _Dear Mr. Moon,_
> 
> _The Cream Society Literary Journal would like to thank you for your recent submission. Although we regret to inform you that your poem has not been selected for publication, we are grateful--_

Howard refolded the paper and stuffed it angrily back into the envelope. He knew by heart how the rest of the letter went: “We’re grateful for your submission, we look forward to reading more poetry by you in the future, blah blah blah.” As heat rose in his cheeks, he shoved the envelope into his desk drawer, where he’d stashed the last twenty? thirty? envelopes.

One day, when Howard made the bestseller list, he’d write to every single editor who’d ever turned him down and send them an autographed copy of his book along with their rejection letter tucked inside, just so they knew what a mistake they’d made.

He was spared from further fuming as a patron approached the desk.

“Hello, dear,” croaked elderly Miss Marsha. Howard knew her last name, but she insisted on being called “Miss Marsha” even though this made Howard feel juvenile and uncomfortable.

“Hello, Miss Marsha,” he greeted, forcing a smile. He pushed the thoughts of his latest rejection out of his mind. He had a library to run.

Howard was the head librarian at Dalston Memorial Public Library. It was a small, historic library with limited funds and a small staff. Besides himself, Howard worked alongside Bob Fossil, a deranged American who functioned as a page, improperly shelving books and terrifying the visiting schoolchildren with his overzealous attempts at friendliness. The library director, Dixon Bainbridge, was seldom in residence, so Howard, essentially, ran the place. And this suited him just fine. He was a poet, an avid reader, and connoisseur of jazz, and the high value he placed on his solitude meant this job fit him like a fine-knitted sweater.

“Your hold is here, Miss Marsha,” Howard said kindly, fetching the book from the shelf. “Now then,” he said as he opened the book and stamped the card on the inside with its new due date, then wrote Miss Marsha’s card number beside the date, “due back in three weeks, though I’m sure we’ll see you before then.” Repeating the process, Howard put the yellow card into his “to be filed” box, and the white card back in the pocket within the book’s cover, before finally handing the book to the waiting Miss Marsha.

“Thank you, dear,” Miss Marsha said. “Hope you have a good day, Howard.” And off she waddled.

Howard knew she didn’t really wish he’d have a good day, it was just something to say. Everyone had some kind of gift or ability: Dixon Bainbridge could spin any yarn into a story of epic proportions (which made him excellent at securing library funding), Miss Marsha could grow any flower in her garden no matter the weather. Howard could always tell when people were telling the truth or lying to him. He couldn’t tell you what the truth was, but he could tell if you were omitting it. As simply as if someone had come up to him and said, “1+1=3,” he knew when someone was saying something untrue.

Howard sighed as he carefully filed the yellow card under its due date (13) so he could retrieve it in three days when Marsha returned.

This was his life.

And he’d convinced himself he loved it.

As a child, Howard had craved adventure. He’d collected maps and postcards from far away places. However, a few attempts at spontaneity had gone very badly (seasickness was a real problem, he realized, and so were people, in general) and dampened that desire rather quickly. He was content to organize his stationery, file books back in the proper order, drink tea, and oversee this bastion of learning and literacy.

What Howard would never admit aloud was that he was lonely.

He spent his nights alone, listening to old records, reading books about big ships, indulging every so often in a fine scotch or pipe, and letting the years pass him by. He’d desired companionship, of course he had. But his few attempts at it had been...messy. And Howard loved quiet and order. Perhaps he’d been alone too long. Perhaps he was just a man set in his ways. Perhaps he was frightened that attachment would capsize his beige world of order and structure. Whatever the reason, Howard was a confirmed bachelor, and only very, very deep down inside himself would he admit that he wasn’t happy with that arrangement.

He was just going to organize his collection of paperclips by size and color when the bell over the door tinkled. Howard turned, smile at the ready to greet the new patron when he realized:

 _Him_.

The smile dissipated as Howard took in who’d walked through the door.

It was that crummy punk kid.

Howard didn’t know his name, nor did he need to. The punk didn’t have a library card, and never took out books. He only came here to use the computers. And give Howard conniptions by doing things like eating gummy candy and getting the keyboards sticky. Howard wanted to trespass the young man, but he hadn’t technically broken any rules. He always did whatever Howard asked, even if he did roll his eyes while doing so.

He strutted in, black hair teased and sprayed to within an inch of its life, his ripped black drainpipes and button-bedecked leather jacket giving him the look of a stroppy teenager. Howard had no idea how old he actually was--but figured he was probably older than he was letting on. Static seemed to crackle around him wherever he went, and the faint smell of smoke and burning plastic followed in his wake. The holey messenger bag slung over his shoulder proclaimed “I’M A MESS.” Howard was inclined to agree.

The punk’s music could be heard through his sticker-covered headphones, a tinny, chaotic, buzzing cacophony. He locked eyes with Howard's and jutted his chin in the air as a greeting.

“Alright,” he said cockily.

“Please turn down your music, this is a library,” Howard said by way of an answer. Predictably, the young man rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, wotever,” he groused around the wad of gum in his mouth. He signed his name on the clipboard to use the computers, and sat himself down.

Howard did notice, however, that upon getting settled, the young man had turned the volume on his Walkman down.

Howard checked the clipboard sneakily once the punk was engrossed on the computer. “Johnny Ramone” was how he’d signed it. Howard rolled his eyes. The kid wasn’t legally required to leave a real name, but what the hell? He was trouble. Howard turned back to his paperclips, keeping a careful eye on The Punk on Computer #1.

The Punk on Computer #1 was, in fact, called Vince, but he didn’t see any reason to let the stuffy librarian know his name. He’d been coming every day since he’d fried his last computer. Vince had decided not to get another one--there was no point. Any time he got angry or sad or excited, pop! Some fuse or wire somewhere would fry and he wasn’t made of money. It was just easier to come here and use the library’s free computers and Internet.

The electronics thing was such a rubbish gift. He wished he could have had something cool, like being able to communicate with animals, or even something benign, like knowing how people liked their tea without asking. That was the kind of thing most people got. But no, not Vince. Vince was constantly blowing out light bulbs, computers, televisions, or any other sort of electronic any time he felt strong emotions. It was a wonder his little Walkman had survived this long, though he figured that was because it ran off batteries rather than electricity.

He checked his emails and copied down his band’s schedule into the notebook he carried with him. Idly, he wondered what the librarian’s gift was. Probably something stupid like perfect cardigan coordination or some such bollocks.

Vince would never admit it out loud, but he found the librarian attractive, in the way one might admire the strong, mustached men in old soap ads from the turn of the century. He was a good looking bloke, if far too square and tightly wound. Vince smirked. If they had met in any other circumstances, maybe Vince would try it on with him. As it was, he needed to be able to get emails somehow, and unless he wanted to go through the months of saving for a computer and internet (only to have it all end in vain, eventually), this was his only option.

He thought of ways he could antagonize Howard. That was the mustached librarian’s name, he knew; it was right on his bloody stupid name tag.

 _Howard_.

Even his name was square. But Vince did rather like it when Howard got scoldy. Sometimes, after a shit gig, late into the morning hours, he’d stand in the shower and imagine a guy who _resembled_ Howard (not Howard, exactly, but Vince definitely had a type) scolding him and ordering him around. Calling him a naughty boy and punishing him for breaking the rules.

And when Vince got over-excited, the light bulb over the mirror would shatter, and he’d swear and get out carefully, trying to avoid finding broken glass with his bare feet.

He turned and snuck a glance at Howard.

He was bent over the circulation desk, sorting something. Maybe books or cards or something, Vince couldn’t tell. He quite liked Howard’s profile. Strong jaw and chin, nice nose, that stupid mustache. He liked Howard’s broad shoulders, and how tall Howard was. He seemed like someone who’d be safe, who could keep _Vince_ safe (he even _smelled_ safe, like ink and tea). He was quiet and stable and constant.

He was everything Vince craved, and nothing Vince had.

Howard glanced up and caught Vince eyeing him. Their eyes locked for a second, Vince gave a cheeky wink, then returned to his computer.

Howard had absolutely no time for that kind of rubbish. He stood, flustered, and was about to go over and tell the young man he had to leave when his path was blocked by Bob Fossil.

“Howard! You have to come help me. One of the rolly cart movers just fell over and a bunch of books went everywhere.”

“Then pick them up and re-shelve them,” Howard told Bob brusquely.

“I can’t, it’s very heavy, please help, Howard,” Fossil whined. Howard shook his head. And yet, he knew when Bob Fossil said that, he meant it. The warm, knowing feeling in the pit of Howard’s stomach told him Bob Fossil very honestly believed he was incapable of fixing this mess.

“All right, fine,” he huffed, shooting a glance at Computer #1. “Just stay here and keep an eye on things, all right? I’ll be back soon.” Fossil nearly skipped to the front desk, glad to have gotten out of cleaning up the mess he’d made.

Howard found the toppled book cart, righted it, and pushed it back to the desk so he could alphabetize the books.

“Go, and try not to make any more messes, okay?” Howard admonished. Bob Fossil sputtered off, and Howard was glad to see the back of him. Bob Fossil was like a fly that buzzed around your head at night as you try to sleep: harmless, but damnably annoying.

Computer #1 stayed until closing, the sun having set long ago. Howard gave the ten minute call, and aside from himself, Fossil, and #1, there was only one other patron in the building. They hurriedly checked out their book, and Howard kept his eyes fixed on #1, daring him to keep them behind. Eventually, the young man stood up, stretched out languorously like a cat after a long nap, grabbed his things, and came and crossed his name off the clipboard. His eyes met Howard’s.

“See you tomorrow, Howard,” he said, gave a saucy grin, and then turned on his heeled boots and left.

Howard had no idea what to say to that.

For a moment he was shocked that the punk knew his name. Then he remembered it was on his name badge, as well as the stack of business cards he kept at the front desk. He was still shaken by the young man _using_ his name, though. He stood there gaping after the punk until Fossil hit the light switch.

“Let’s go, boss! It’s Friday night!”

“Uh, right,” replied Howard. He did a quick sweep of the desk--everything was in order--and then followed Fossil out of the front door, autumn leaves crunching pleasantly beneath his feet. He withdrew the key and locked the door and cast iron gate, bid Fossil farewell, and made the short walk back to his house.

His house was technically on the library’s property. At one time it had been a carriage house, but had since been converted to a small flat. It was old-fashioned, charming, and tidy--rather like Howard.

He let himself in, lit a fire against the cool autumn air, and set about making dinner. While he waited for his food to cook, he poured himself a tumbler of scotch. Sitting before the fire in his worn leather armchair, Howard was painfully aware that these were moments he _should_ have enjoyed. But they were also the moments when he was vulnerable, and more likely to admit to himself just how alone he was.

He thought of the two women he’d loved before, only one of whom had entered into a relationship with him. Her infidelity had ruined him. He’d sworn off love after that, and yet, in these hazy times before the fire, he wanted it so badly it nearly consumed him.

The timer dinged.

Stirring himself from melancholy musings, he put on a Coltrane album and ate his supper in peace. He tried to scratch out some new poetry, but found the words wouldn’t come. Giving up, he bathed, had a cup of tea, and fell into his crisply-sheeted bed, the smell of the dying fire giving off a cozy, woodsy aroma.

In the blurred moments between sleep and wakefulness, he imagined black-varnished nails and gentle blue eyes, and a deep voice, definitely not a woman’s, saying his name, as if they were friends, as if they were intimate in any way:

 _Howard_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am writing this based off my experience in US libraries. I'm sure things in the actual UK are quite different, but I'm just writing what I know. 
> 
> Miss Marsha is based off a patron at my library who insists we all call her Miss Marsha. 
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, Dalston is a small town, not a suburb of London.
> 
> [CLICK HERE](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1wK3MI3ZjqQ6cBUkOLShhnR-urUF6m1p0) to see the mood board I made for this fic. It helps me write to have a visual.


	2. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Gideon visits the library. Vince makes some edits. Notes are exchanged by moonlight.

The following day was Saturday, meaning Howard could have a lie-in which he enjoyed immensely. The library didn’t open until noon, and since it closed at five, Howard knew he’d be there alone today--no Bob Fossil to come in like a one-man parade and mess everything up.

Howard opened the windows, letting the cool air in. Autumn had always been his favorite season. He loved the smells of crushed leaves and pumpkin spice, and the way the heat of summer gradually gave way to the gray coolness of fall.

He mixed a tea he’d bought at the apothecary down the street (“Teas, Tisanes and Tinctures: for all purposes” the sign proclaimed, and the older woman who ran it had a gift for knowing which combination of plants, herbs, and spices would fix nearly any ailment), and drank it, letting the warmth wake him up.

After puttering around (cleaning, sweeping the front steps, making himself a sandwich for lunch), he dressed, his coarse brown cardigan perfect for the coolness of the day, and made his way to the library.

Howard loved the quiet moments in the library, when he was the only one there. He could have sworn the books whispered to each other on the shelves. The smell of vanillin book glue and old paper soothed Howard, clearing away any cobwebs in his head. With the soft sunlight filtered through the antique stained glass window, he was at peace in his kingdom of quiet and order.

With a sigh, he unlocked the gate and the front door, allowing the public into his domain.

They hadn’t been open half an hour when the punk returned. Howard looked up from his notebook coolly, noting the headphones were gone today.

 

“Alright, Howard” the punk nodded, the barest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Yes. Please put your real name on the sheet, Mr. Ramone.”

“Aw, come off it, what’s it matter to you? Maybe my name really is John Ramone.”

“I’m willing to bet it isn’t.”

 

The younger man rolled his big blue eyes, and muttered, “wotever” under his breath as he penned something on the sign in sheet. Then he made his way back to Computer #1. As soon as he was seated, Howard read the sheet.

“Sid Vicious.”

Howard stifled the irritation rising up inside him. _This is a stupid thing to get ruffled over. Just let it go_ , he told himself.

He turned back to his notebook.

 

 _And by myself, I wait and dwell_  
_Awaiting for someone to come_  
_And make me at long last well_ _  
_ Complete and whole, no longer glum?

 

Howard scratched that out, it was utter rubbish. It’s no wonder he wasn’t a Cream Poet. They’d never accept the childish likes of that.

He was about to start something new, when in a cloud of begonia-scented perfume Mrs. Gideon, the local schoolteacher, approached the desk and asked for assistance with the reference collection. Howard hesitated to leave the desk unattended, but it was relatively quiet. Besides, Mrs. Gideon’s lilting voice was so enchanting, her nondescript European accent sweet as honey, that he would have done nearly anything she asked of him.

He just hoped he could trust the punk not to do anything stupid for the few minutes he was away.

 

Of course, Vince was not to be trusted.

Vince didn’t need anything today, not really, he was just killing time until his next gig. He made ends meet by playing bass in whatever bands needed him, and scalping his art whenever he could. Being terrible with electronics of any kind seriously hindered Vince’s job market. What he really wanted to do was anything artistic: music, painting, even a little writing. But there was no money in the arts. Hence the reason he needed to use the library’s computers in the first place.

Vince watched Howard and _that_ woman turn the corner through his peripheral vision. Then he got up and investigated Howard’s desk. He snuck a business card into his back pocket (a thick cream-colored card stock with “Howard Moon, MLS” embossed on it--he didn’t know why, it wasn’t like he needed it or anything), and helped himself to a ginger candy from the bowl near the checkout counter. And then his eyes alighted on something far more interesting--Howard’s notebook.

He looked over his shoulder to be sure Howard wasn’t coming back, then quickly grabbed the brown book and flipped through its contents.

Inside were pages upon pages of cursive scribblings. Bits of poems, prose, lists, and everything in between. He stopped on the most recent bit. Vince wanted to laugh at poor Howard’s stupid poetry and child-like rhyme schemes, but couldn’t find the spite within himself to do so. He felt... sad.

Howard was just as alone as he was.

Glancing over his shoulder again, he grabbed a red pen from the desk (the pens, he noted, were in a cup labeled “Pens” and in ROYGBIV order) and made some edits to the poem.

Better.

He replaced the pen, put the notebook exactly where he’d found it, and returned to Computer #1.

 

Howard rounded the corner not long afterwards, just as Vince was packing up his stuff and leaving. He stopped by the desk to cross his name off the computer sheet.

“See you Monday, Howard,” he said adjusting that stupid bag over his shoulder, and strutted out.

Howard didn’t reply.

It wasn’t until nearly five o’clock that Howard realized someone had rifled with his things, and _worse,_ read his poems and had the gall to scribble over them. His vision went as red as the pen ink. How dare _anyone_ touch what wasn’t theirs! What was _his!_ His private work!

He fumed at the empty building, trying to mentally recall everyone who’d been in that day, but it was useless. He saw many people throughout the day, every day, and now it was all quiet and empty. Stupid bloody library, what was the point of being open if nobody was even here?

Before shutting out the lights, he read the edits.

 

 _And by myself, I wait and dwell_  
_Awaiting for love to arrive_  
_And at long last my thirst to quell_ _  
_ And together, love, and grow, and thrive.

  


That---

That was...not terrible. In fact, it was almost _good._

But who had written it?

Howard shut out the lights, and closed down the building on autopilot, his mind racing as he tried to guess who had improved his poetry. That’s what it was: an improvement. There was the old man who came for the daily paper, but it probably wasn’t him. The Punk on #1 was an absolute no, as Howard doubted he could either read or write.

Okay, maybe the punk _could_ read and write, but he didn’t have a library card and never read _books_. He certainly wasn’t there writing poetry. He wouldn’t know the word “quell,” at least. Howard continued to catalogue the other patrons, but the only one who made any sense was Mrs. Gideon.

Mrs. Gideon: a beautiful, educated, sensitive woman.

Howard thrilled at the idea of lovely Mrs. Gideon assisting him with his poetry.

Tomorrow was Sunday and the library would be closed, but Howard spent the rest of the evening and his entire day off imagining scenarios of him and Mrs. Gideon writing poetry together, planning ways he could get her to assist him further.

 

Meanwhile, by the light of the harvest moon on his way home from that night’s gig, Vince dropped a sheet of paper into the library’s book drop for Howard to find Monday morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if begonia has a definable scent, but in the Victorian language of flowers, begonias symbolize "false love" and were meant as a warning, or to proceed with caution. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to blackmountainbones for being the best beta. 
> 
> I've been in libraries before they open and can confirm: books definitely whisper. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also, fun fact: old book glue was made with lignin, which is closely related to vanillin. As it breaks down, the lignin gives off a faint vanilla scent. This is why some people love the smell of old books so much, and underneath the musty smell describe them as smelling sweet. Personally, this is one of my top favorite smells in the world.


	3. The First Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard entertains Phantom of the Opera fantasies. Vince fantasizes about what his life might be like if he'd met Howard earlier. There is bad poetry.

Monday morning dawned clear and cool, a largely uneventful day at the library. Howard sipped his morning tea as he checked in the books Fossil had retrieved from the book drop, and nearly choked as he found a scrap of paper inscribed with an untidy script:

 

 _I enjoyed reading your work_ __  
_You’re pretty good,_  
_But if you’d let me help you,_ _  
_ _I definitely could._

 

Howard’s heart jumped into his throat. The mystery poet wanted to take him, Howard, under their wing! This was just like Phantom of the Opera! Howard’s hand trembled as he tucked the note into his writing notebook. He’d deal with that later. He had to think of a good response.

He worked through the morning in a haze, barely focusing on the tasks at hand as his mind buzzed with images of he and Mrs. Gideon composing poetry on a boat under an opera house. He tried to convince himself it _wasn’t_ Mrs. Gideon. After all, the “Mrs.” rather implied she was attached. But he could think of no other alternative.

Sometime after noon and a small Bob Fossil incident later (he tried to arrange the children’s books by color, and had gotten through all the yellows before Howard realized and made him put them back in proper “alphabetical by author’s last name” order), the punk came in.

Today he had on an oversized black cable knit sweater, his usual distressed black drainpipes, and fingerless gloves printed with skeletal finger bones. Howard’s first thought was _that sweater looks cozy, wonder if it’s 100% wool_ followed very quickly by _those are the stupidest gloves I’ve ever seen._

“Alright, Howard,” said the punk.

“Hello, Mr. Vicious. Who will we be today?”

The smile the younger man flashed caught Howard completely off guard. It was as though he’d just invited a lonely child to his birthday party. The punk’s blue eyes, gentle despite being rimmed in eyeliner, flashed with pleasure, and his whole face broke into a smile that Howard found... _beautiful,_ for lack of a better word. His teeth were a little crooked, sure, but that smile split across his face and the stroppy, brooding demeanor was gone, and in its place was pure sunshine.

“It’s a surprise, innit,” the punk replied, writing something down on the clipboard before heading to Computer #1.

Today, he was “Robert Smith.”

Howard had to look up who Robert Smith was, but had actually heard one or two songs by The Cure. Namely a jazz cover of “Lovecats,” but he figured that counted.

He grinned to himself and continued the very important work of figuring out how to contact The Angel of Poetry (as he’d taken to calling his unknown mentor in his mind) via the book drop.

He couldn’t put his replies inside the book drop as The Angel of Poetry didn’t have a key to get inside. He also didn’t want to just tape poems to the book drop--that’d be weird, and also leave his poems exposed to all sorts of things like the elements and other people’s prying eyes. No, he had to figure out a way to reach The Angel of Poetry without knowing anything about them.

 

His musings were interrupted when the punk approached the desk with a, “Hey, Howard, can you help me print summat?”

“Mmm? Oh, right, yes.” Howard rose and approached the printer. “It’ll be 10p.”

The punk dug in his extremely small pockets for change while Howard set up the print job.

“I can teach you to do this yourself,” Howard offered.

“No, it’s no use. I’m shite with anything electronic,” the punk replied as he grinned sheepishly, and placed the coins into Howard’s hand. Howard went and retrieved the print job and placed the still-warm paper’s into the punk’s hands.

“Cheers, Howard. Have you got a pen?”

Howard gave him one from his pen cup. “There you are, Mr. Smith.” The punk flashed that sunshine smile again.

“Thanks again,” he said, and with that, the punk turned the corner and sat himself down at a desk to fill out the paper he’d just printed.

 

Howard couldn’t help but notice when he retrieved it from the printer, that #1’s paper was a job application for the local petrol station. Once again, he was bemused and a little annoyed with his sequence of thoughts: _of course unemployed as I suspected, good for nothing, won’t get a good job if he’s too dumb to use the printer, but at least he’s out there trying to better himself, wouldn’t hurt if he dressed like a proper young man though and less like a lady in a punk band, beautiful smile though, what a tosser._

His train of thought was interrupted by Miss Marsha who had, predictably, returned far before her due date.

“Hello, dear,” she croaked.

“Good afternoon, Miss Marsha. Did you enjoy it?” He took the book and began the process of checking it in.

“It was average. Anything new in?”

“You know we don’t do acquisitions until the fifteenth of the month, Miss Marsha.”

“It’s pitiful, the way they fund this place. When I was a girl--” and here she entered into a lengthy reminiscence of how things were better when she was younger. Howard stopped listening, his mind wheels turning with a plan to reach the Angel of Poetry.

 

The last place Vince wanted to work was a petrol station, but he wasn’t going to make his rent this month if he didn’t secure a side job. He half hoped they wouldn’t hire him. He didn’t make it home until three or four most mornings. The mere thought of having to work in a shop when he was so sleep deprived exhausted him.

Maybe the library was hiring? Not a lot of things he could blow up in here.

Maybe he shouldn’t hand in the petrol shop application, after all. If he set off a spark in a gas station…Vince shook his head, and took a calming breath when he noticed the light bulb in the lamp flicker a little.

Howard wouldn’t hire him here. Besides, what would Vince even _do?_ This place was dead most days. He could practically hear his cells dying.

No, not the library then.

Vince chewed thoughtfully on the tip of the pen he was using before remembering it was Howard’s pen and stopped.

That art supply store the next town over would be genius, only Vince didn’t drive. He didn’t need to--most everything he needed was within walking distance, the perk of living in a small town. He’d already worked in (and been dismissed from) most of the small shops and businesses. He had a reputation for being clumsy at best, malicious at worst, and word got around.

Vince sighed, frustrated, but with a valiant effort kept his feelings under control. He marched back to the desk and returned Howard’s pen.

 

Howard looked up from a small list he was making. “Will we see you tomorrow, Mr. Smith?”

Vince grinned, a feeling of warmth spreading through him. “Alright, since you asked so nicely,” he replied flirtily. “Have a good night, Howard.” And he turned and walked away.

Howard was exactly the kind of person Vince would love to have as a friend. Vince didn’t have a lot of friends. He was amiable, but his bandmates were more like co-workers, and he’d moved around so much as a child, in and out of the foster care system, that he’d never put down proper roots. His tendency to cycle through jobs like the moon cycled through phases didn’t help, either. He lasted maybe a year or two in any given town before having to move on.

Maybe if he’d been born and raised here, he might’ve met Howard in school. Maybe Howard would have kept him out of the way of bullies and helped him with his homework.  Maybe they could have been roommates. He couldn’t imagine librarians made loads of dosh. They could have helped each other with rent, Vince could help Howard brighten up what he was sure was a beige geriatric nightmare of a living space…

He checked his pleasant daydreams when he realized the power lines above his head were humming a little louder than usual.

Still, he’d stop by the book drop tonight on his way home again. See if Howard had come up with something clever.

 

Vince was pleasantly surprised late that night, or early that morning, when there was a green leather bound notebook propped against the book drop. Inside he found:

 _At last,_  
_A friend to help me along the way._  
_I accept your offer_  
_My heart overflows with creamy thanks,_  
_Upon this very happy day._

Vince crinkled his nose. That was _awful._  

Even so, he got that warm, excited feeling in his stomach again as he tucked the notebook into his bag and made his way home.

 

Howard didn’t know it, but Vince was just as eager for this partnership as he was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to blackmountainbones for being the world's best beta!
> 
> I feel bad about this fic because I actually _can_ write poetry, but here I've made Vince and Howard write like Dr. Seuss. It is what it is.


	4. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard learns some surprising things about Vince. Vince has a row with his band. Poetry and notes are exchanged.

The next morning, Howard found his green notebook inside the bookdrop, with a beautifully worded entreaty for Howard to copy over some of the poems he was working on. In between checking out patrons and assisting people with reference questions, he dutifully copied down his poems into the new shared notebook.

He hadn’t seen Mrs. Gideon since the weekend, but he hadn’t stopped imagining her as the Angel of Poetry. The scratchy, messy script was hardly what he imagined her handwriting to be like, though. This thought alone kept him awake at night.

What if Howard’s mystery Angel of Poetry wasn’t Mrs Gideon after all?

The handwriting was... masculine, for lack of a better word. Howard tried to imagine the kind of man who would be willing to assist him with poetry, the sort of man who would drop notes into a book drop and share a journal with another man, as if they were lovers.

In his mind, he pictured Tommy Nooka, the former library director. He had suffered an untimely death as a result of a cheese accident, but Howard still upheld him as the ideal of what a gentleman and scholar ought to be. However, he couldn’t imagine Tommy Nooka trading secret poetry with another man.

There was almost an element of _romance_ to this liaison.

Howard had to grapple with that. He was, he decided, far too old to be figuring out his sexuality. He was a man who loved women, period.

But what if…

He didn’t ponder the matter too deeply. He just hoped fervently his secret poet was Mrs. Gideon.

Checking over his color-coded calendar, he realized tomorrow evening was the jazz lecture with renowned jazz scholar, Lester Corncrake. The library didn’t usually host special events, but every so often they attempted to be more than just a musty building full of books. Howard didn’t move in many social circles, but jazz was a topic he was passionate about. When he’d realized Lester Corncrake would be visiting London, he’d enthusiastically reached out to see if Lester be interested in holding a seminar for London’s jazzier residents. Happily, he’d agreed.

Howard had made some fliers to advertise, and set them out around the circulation desk and computers.

 

Of course, Vince hadn’t been in the building a mere handful of seconds before he had to comment, “Oh, gross, who’s this geezer?”

“That, sir, is Lester Corncrake. He’s come all the way from the US to be here and give that talk.”

“On jazz?” Vince asked, nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Yes, sir,” Howard replied trying to keep his tone even. Vince bit his lip thoughtfully.

“Do you like jazz, Howard?”

Howard’s instinct was to correct the young punk and ask to be called “Mr. Moon,” but that seemed wrong, considering they were likely closer in age than he’d originally thought. Something about the way the punk used Howard’s name so casually, the way it tripped off his tongue so easily, made Howard... uncomfortable. And he wanted it to stop, even though there was no reason for it.

“Jazz is the finest form of music,” Howard replied. The punk snorted a laugh. “Oh, I suppose you think punk or rock or whatever rabbel you listen to is superior,” Howard said, his temper rising.

“Naw,” the punk answered. “This is my look cos it’s my job,” he said, gesturing down at his clothes. “To be honest, I’d listen to Bowie and Jagger and Gary Numan if I weren’t in a punk band. You ever listen to Gary Numan? He’s genius.”

 

This sentence caused a lot of things to occur to Howard all at once.

First, he was dazzled as the sunshine smile returned to the punk’s face. Second, he was slightly startled to realize this entire... _look_ wasn’t actually _his._ The kid liked classic rock; Howard could hardly fault him there. Third, he was a musician by trade. Granted, a punk musician, but a musician all the same. Which led to number four: if he was a musician, why did he need a job at the petrol place? Fifth, how would he dress and look if he wasn’t in a punk band? Why was he in a punk band if that wasn’t he music listened to?

Howard decided all of this necessitated further thought and at least two cups of tea.

 

The punk waxed at length about the “genius” of electro-pop before signing the clipboard and settling in at Computer #1.

Howard checked: today he was Siouxsie Sioux. He chuckled to himself, and wondered if he’d ever learn #1’s _real_ name.

 

Vince didn’t have anything to do today, not really, but he liked Howard. He liked how calming Howard was, the way he smelled faintly of lemon and bergamot. Vince noticed his nerves never seemed frayed in the library... the computers behaved, the phones kept ringing as usual, the lightbulbs didn’t buzz, everything worked as it should. Vince wasn’t sure whether that was because the library itself was calming, or if it was because Howard was there.

He liked to believe it was because of Howard.

Howard, with all his soft browns and tans, his wool cardigans and tweed, his omnipresent cup of tea, his ink-stained fingers, exuded the kind of calm Vince would inject intravenously if he could. Vince’s own world was chaotic, full of screeching and shattering and noise, and he relished the quiet calm that came with Howard.

He messed around on the computer for a few minutes, but quickly grew bored. He wasn’t ready to leave yet, though. He wanted to watch Howard, see if he was writing poems in their book.

 _Their_ book.

Vince had never co-owned anything before. Things were either his or they weren’t, and he loved the fleeting sense of intimacy the thought of sharing things with Howard gave him.

Maybe he’d even come to that stupid jazz thing tomorrow. He could probably attend for a while and leave before he had to play his gig.

He slung his bag over his shoulder, crossed out Siouxsie’s name, gave Howard a grin ( _he was writing in the notebook!_ ) and went over to the nonfiction. Maybe he could find some art books to look at.

 

Howard was still reeling from the recent revelations about #1. He wondered what instrument #1 played--guitar, likely, if he was in a punk band. He wondered if the entire act was just for show, as though maybe he was a method musician the way serious thespians are method actors. Furthermore, he’d just gone into the stacks--to _read._

Maybe Howard had been hasty in his first judgments.

He copied over the last of the poems he was working on, and wished desperately that Mrs. Gideon would come back to the library. He usually didn’t see her except for the weekends, when school was out.

As he left the building that evening, he left the notebook behind the book drop, anticipation warming him pleasantly against the cool autumn evening.

* * *

 

Sweat pouring down his face and neck, Vince carefully packed away his bass guitar with sore and aching fingers. The gig had gone well, but he was anxious to get home. He played the songs from muscle memory, because his mind was nearly wholly focused on the green notebook tucked away in his bag. He wanted to read what Howard had written.

When his bandmates pestered him to go out to the afterparty, he declined.

“Come on, mate,” groused Johnny Two Hats, the singer. “Just for a bit, don’t have to be til morning.” Johnny shoved him.

Vince _hated_ that. It reminded him of being bullied at school, reminded him of how small and slight he actually was despite the teased hair and platform boots.

“I said no thanks,” Vince repeated. “I’ve got some stuff on.” Johnny shoved him again.

“Oi, you’re better than us now?”

“I never said that, I just--”

“You got a bloke waiting for you at home?”

“No.”

Another shove, this time from the drummer. Vince was struggling to keep an even keel. He breathed through his nose, started counting. Despite these measures, he heard the amp onstage start whining.

“Stop,” he growled.

“Got yourself a pretty boy at home, eh Vincey? Or another job? You got another job to go to?” Another shove came from the side. The amp’s whining increased to a buzz. “Finally moving out of that shithole you call home, Vincey?” The spotlights, still on from the show, brightened. Vince tried hard to stop the blood from rising, tried to focus on the ground, on his shoes, on _anything_ other than the buffeting.

It didn’t work.

“Bet you’re gonna go suck off some filthy bloke, you slag--”

The amp sparked, fire and smoke popping into the air. There was a moment of shocked silence as the band watched the smoke waft away from the ruined amplifier.

“Did you do that, Vince?” asked Johnny, his tone dark and menacing.

“I didn’t mean to, I--”

His sentence was cut off as a fist met his chin.  
  
Vince reeled, tasting blood in his mouth. The spotlights shot to full power before shattering, showering glass on the band below. Vince used that moment to grab his guitar case and leave. He could hear Johnny shouting after him, “Run off, you bloody ponce! And don’t bloody well come back, you piece of shit!”

 

Hands shaking, mouth tasting of blood where he’d bit his tongue, Vince unsteadily made his way back to his flat. He was too keyed up to go home directly. He tried hard not to cry, tears of frustration and exhaustion weedling their way out of his eyes. Vince sniffed and tried to compose himself. The best thing to do would be to sit someplace quiet and calm himself down, only nothing was open at this time of night.

He thought longingly of the library.

He considered the park, but decided not to try his luck. Dressed like he was, he wasn’t eager for another assault, this time from nighttime park-goers. Hitching the guitar case up his shoulder, Vince walked through the cool night, trying to even his breathing and heart rate, feeling the blood cease pounding in his ears.

He thought about stopping someplace and getting a drink but thought better of it and turned towards his place. His anger was replaced with sadness. Now he had _no_ job and precious little in his bank account. What was he going to do?

He tromped up the stairs, let himself into the studio apartment, and left the lights out. The moon was full. There was no heat, so Vince wrapped himself in a blanket, opened the blinds, and grabbed the notebook.

He wanted so badly to lose himself in Howard’s poems, anything to take his mind away from itself.

By moonlight, breath frosting on the cool air, he read.

Howard’s poems weren’t bad, not really. They were full of emotion, but they lacked the rhythm and lyricism necessary to make poetry work.

Reading them shifted the way Vince thought about Howard--obviously, the librarian’s creamy beige world wasn’t as happy and perfectly ordered as he wanted everyone to believe. If the inner turmoil Howard wrote about was true, it was little wonder he derived pleasure in the well-ordered world of the library. Howard felt on the inside how Vince felt, and looked, all the time: untethered, adrift, alone, purposeless, and afraid beneath the outer veneer.

Vince wanted to hug him, and wished he’d had a drink after all.

Maybe not. Vince’s carefully placed walls slipped when he was impaired. He didn’t want to break anything else tonight.

He grabbed a biro and set to work editing Howard’s poems. They weren’t awful, not at all. Together he figured they might get something published. Vince’s poetry leaned too heavily on imagery and flowery diction. Howard’s influence would ground him. And Vince could lend some fantasy and rhythm to Howard’s otherwise predictable rhyme scheme and cream phrasing.

A couple hours later, Vince had finished. He made a note in the margin: **_submit these!_ **

As usual, writing had relaxed him. Vince was coming down from the adrenaline high of the night, and the pain in his jaw was worsening. Un-cocooning himself, he washed, changed into his bedclothes, and fell asleep almost instantly. He figured he’d have a lie-in tomorrow before going to that stupid jazz lecture tomorrow evening, and the thought of Howard, despite everything else, made him smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks, as always, to blackmountainbones for all their help. 
> 
> This was my favorite chapter to write.


	5. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lester Corncrake visits the library. Howard rethinks some basic principles. Vince tells Howard his real name. There are baked goods.

Howard was shelving books in the stacks, slipping them carefully back to their locations alphabetically by author’s last name and then title. He took extra care in moving all the books to the edge of the shelf, lining them up evenly so they looked uniform, a small detail with which Fossil never bothered. The library dimly lit in warm, golden tones. The air was hazy and heavy, and Howard was relaxed and sleepy.

He heard footsteps coming down the aisle and looked up. #1 was walking urgently towards him, his cool blue eyes striking against the golden aura of the room.

“Alright, Howard,” he said breathily, and in the same movement had pressed Howard against the shelves, and cupping Howard’s face in his pale hands, kissed him.

Not just a kiss. A full-on snog.

Howard gasped as #1 pressed him flush against the carefully ordered shelves. He couldn’t be bothered by the sound of books scattering, not now. He parted his lips to grant #1’s greedy tongue access, all the while being caressed about the neck and head by the hands in his hair and under his collar.

As those hands reached up under his shirt, Howard realized he was so hard it hurt, and he couldn’t help but thrust his hips against the smaller man. Howard groaned, and #1 made a reciprocal noise that shot fire through every fiber of Howard’s being.

“Please,” Howard begged, unsure of what he was asking for.

“Howard,” the punk replied. He kept repeating his name. “Howard, Howard, Howard…”

“I don’t even know your name,” Howard said between kisses. The punk just looked at him, pure mischief in his eyes.

“You never asked,” he said, licking his lips and kneeling before Howard. He tilted his head in such a seductive way, teeth biting his full lips, never breaking eye contact, and before he even laid his first touch, Howard was jerking, hips stuttering, moaning gutturally--

 

Howard bolted upright, waking from the first wet dream he’d had since puberty.

 

His nightclothes were stuck to his back with sweat. He panted, out of breath, and realized sweat wasn’t the only thing making him... damp. Embarrassed, he got up to clean off and change.

_What. The. Hell._

Howard was a grown man, completely on the wrong side of thirty for this sort of thing. Furthermore: why had Howard been so affected by dreaming of #1? He’d had plenty of lascivious dreams before featuring women, and none of them had garnered this result. What even...?

Hands still shaking slightly, Howard dug around in his dresser drawers for the crumpled pack of cigarettes he kept in there. He rarely smoked, aside from the occasional pipe, but he needed the hit of nicotine to calm his nerves, so he lit up and inhaled deeply. The cigarette was stale, no denying it, but it did the job. Instantly, he felt himself start to calm down.

He smoked thoughtfully, each drag and exhale purposeful, as he slowly paced his small house. Why had he dreamed about #1? As he’d astutely pointed out in his own dream, he didn’t even know the younger man’s name.  
  
Furthermore, there was the fact that #1 was a man. Howard had always thought he was straight and just terrible with women. Maybe not?

Inhale. Exhale.

The smoke looked pretty in the moonlight, Howard thought drowsily. Then the idea sadly occurred to him that this was close to a post-coital smoke as he was likely ever to get.

The thought depressed him.

Taking the last drag on his cigarette, he stubbed it out and trashed the butt. He poured himself a tumbler of scotch and downed it in one. He was tempted to have another, but remembered the jazz lecture at the library, and knew it would be a long day. Howard crawled back into his bed, mind still darting about busily, but at a less frantic pace.

Eventually, he did drift off to sleep, his earlier physical release having worn him out. Still, all he could hear was the litany of #1 repeating his name, over and over, as he drifted off.

* * *

That evening, Howard put the finishing touches on the room. He’d arranged it _just_ so, so that Lester had a good place to sit and plenty of chairs for the public. He’d even gotten Bob Fossil to help Howard drag a table in so he could place out refreshments. Then he’d made two pots of tea and one of decaf coffee, and had even baked some bread for the occasion.

Like anything that required following steps in order, Howard found baking to be soothing. He wasn’t _amazing_ at it, but he did enjoy it. He’d awakened early, still unsettled by the night he’d had, and decided baking was precisely the kind of thing he needed to soothe his nerves. The three pumpkin loaves that resulted were his humble offering to the jazzier set of Dalston.

He was debating if the doilies were too much when Lester arrived.

“Skiddly doot, how are ya, Howard?” Howard smiled broadly.

“Very well, thanks for coming out tonight, Lester.” He guided Lester to the chair he’d be sitting in for the lecture. They made some jazzy small talk as people filed in. Howard wasn’t terribly surprised when Miss Marsha came in, as well as a couple of other older jazz aficionados. He kept peering hopefully at the room’s entrance, wishing that Mrs. Gideon would arrive when, with a thrill, he saw the punk come around the corner.

Again, Howard’s cataloging mind tried to catch up with the many things happening inside it simultaneously:

_It’s him, he’s here, oh god, why am I getting so warm, cool it, Moon, keep it together. He looks...different. Tired. He looks exhausted, actually, not at all well. But still good. Shorter? No high heeled boots this evening. Is that a bruise on his face? Less makeup? Less hair? Or smaller hair? Why does he look so soft? Christy but he smells good, smoky and sweet and... Oh god, he’s coming over here, please don’t blurt out that you had a sex dream last night, please for the love of God, Moon, just--_

“Alright, Howard?” the punk asked.

Howard took a deep breath before replying. “Uh, yes. Everything is alright. You are here.” He caught himself, “I just mean, I’m surprised you’re here, I thought you hated jazz.” The younger man shuffled a little awkwardly and grinned up at Howard.

“Yeah, well, I thought I’d see what this jazz bloke from America had to say. ‘Sides, my gig was canceled so I had time to kill. Is that cake?”

“Chocolate chip pumpkin bread.”

“So it’s a cake masquerading as bread,” Vince said, ruffling a hand through his hair as he eyed the bread. “Cheeky bastard.”

“It’s a bread, sir, I made it myself,” Howard replied, standing a bit taller.

“You did?” The younger man helped himself to a slice. He made a noise that Howard thought was...obscene. The librarian cleared his throat hoping to God he wasn’t going to get a stiffy here at work watching a man eat bread for chrissakes. “That is _well_ good, Howard. Had no idea you could cook.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, sir. I’m a Man of Action, a spanner of genres, a maverick, coming at you like a ray, like a beam, chicka chick ow!” As soon as the words tumbled out of his mouth, Howard wanted to die. He couldn’t believe he’d said that.

And yet, he was rewarded with the sunshine smile.

“I’m Vince,” said #1.

“I don’t know any pop stars named Vince, sorry,” said Howard.

“No, that’s my name,” #1 insisted. “Vince Noir.” And Howard felt it--that warm, heavy feeling he got all over when someone told the truth.

“Oh.” _Vince?_ Howard wasn’t sure what he was expecting (Obsidian Blackbird McNight maybe?) but it wasn’t _Vince._ “Noir” he could see. He wondered if that was his _real_ surname or a legally changed one. Still, he extended his hand. “Nice to formally meet you, Vince Noir.”

Vince giggled and grinned like a bashful schoolgirl, but shook Howard’s hand.

He was cold. _Cold hands, warm heart,_ Howard’s brain supplied. His pale delicate fingers fit so well inside Howard’s larger hand, his grip firm but not crushing. _Musician’s hands._

_Please stop, Moon._

Howard released Vince’s hand, quickly returning to his own comfortable bubble of personal space. “Well, Vince, feel free to take a seat anywhere. We’ll be starting soon.”

Vince flashed another grin. “Cheers,” he said as he took a seat towards the back.

Howard stared at the back of Vince’s head and hoped idly that more people would show up, but then supposed it didn’t matter much.

They started on time, with Lester rambling about jazz and answering questions for his paltry audience. There was a bit of heated discussion about the impact of jazz in the US versus the UK, but overall, it went well. The older folks left very soon afterwards, claiming they couldn’t be out all hours of the night (it was just past 8), and Howard called a cab for Lester, hoping they could meet up again soon. Fossil had left sometime during the lecture, which left Howard alone with Vince.

Vince happily helped Howard stack chairs and tidy the room, doing whatever he could to assist. He chatted happily, alleviating Howard’s crippling fear of awkward silences. When they were done, Howard wrapped the leftover loaves in the plain flour sack kitchen towels he’d brought from home.

“Here, take one,” he said, offering it to Vince.

“Nah, s’alright.”

“No, I’m serious, take one. You look like you could use a good meal.”

Vince flushed a little and toed the ground awkwardly before taking the proffered pumpkin loaf. “Cheers, Howard.”

“No problem.” Howard felt shy but successful, proud, like he’d coaxed a wild bird to eat from his hand.

 

They exited the library together, quietly now. Each was wrapped up in his own thoughts. Vince was desperate to ask Howard for a job, but didn’t want to look even needier than he apparently already did. Howard’s palms perspired as he tried to think of something to say. They both secretly eyed the book drop then looked away quickly.  

“Say, Howard?” asked Vince eventually. “Do you all ever need help here? You ever hiring?”

“Ah,” said Howard. Hiring decisions were left to Bainbridge, who was off running around with rhinoceroses in Africa or some such nonsense. “We aren’t hiring at the moment.” Vince’s shoulders visibly sagged. “But I can ask the director when he gets back in town. There’s a possibility something might open up.”

“Thanks,” said Vince glumly.

“Looking for work, then?”

“Yeah. My band...it didn’t work out.” Vince wasn’t sure why he was telling Howard this. It wasn’t any of his business. “Just wondered. The library’s nice. If you hear of anything let me know, yeah?” He wasn’t sure what else to say but was reluctant to part company with Howard. It was so _nice_ having someone to talk to.

“Sure.” Howard wasn’t sure what to do. Awkwardly he turned toward his place said, “I live just there, in that small house.”

“Really? That’s genius!” replied Vince, perking up again. “Great commute.”

“Yes,” said Howard chuckling. Vince figured he should probably go.

“Thanks for the bread, Howard.”

“Yes. Uh, you’re welcome. Good night, Vince.”

“See ya.”

They parted ways, Howard returning to his cozy home, Vince to his dark apartment.

 

Howard didn’t even realize that he’d forgotten all about Mrs. Gideon the moment Vince came into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to blackmountainbones for beta-ing and kicking ass at it.


	6. Saturday Next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince and Howard get to know each other. Naboo appears! Vince visits Howard at home. There's a storm.

Over the next few weeks, Vince and Howard chatted amiably at the library, all animosity between them gone. Howard always made sure he had extra ginger candies in the bowl for Vince, and wished there was some way to give him food without seeming like a charity case, or worse, a date.

For his part, Vince was just happy to have Howard to talk to. When the library wasn’t busy he’d linger around the circulation desk for long stretches, just chatting and laughing with Howard and enjoying every minute of it.

They continued to pass the notebook back and forth. Howard had taken the suggestion written in the margin: **_Submit these!_ ** He had mailed off three of the poems to _Cream_ , and checked the post eagerly each day in hopes that he’d hear something.

Bob Fossil had taken a shine to Vince, too, calling him “my little Vincey boy” or “blue baby blanket boy” or any other series of nonsensical words. Vince looked uncomfortable, but not afraid. Howard had explained that Fossil was a little wrong in the mind tank, but generally harmless.

“Is that his gift, then? Making people uncomfortable?” They both snickered softly before Howard replied.

“To be honest, I’m not sure _what_ his gift is. He has a knack for guessing songs on the radio before they play, but one time he told me he heard thoughts and while that is a terrifying concept, it would explain why he’s so...deranged.”

“Wow,” Vince said, eyes wide. “And I thought I had it bad.”

“What's yours?” Howard asked, leaning in towards Vince subconsciously. It generally wasn’t something you asked, but he and Vince had developed an easy repartee between them and Howard didn’t think he’d mind.

Vince closed his eyes. He thought about Howard--how good he made Vince feel, the way he’d appraise Vince as if he was checking to make sure he was okay and healthy, his broad shoulders, his moustache, his little crinkly brown eyes, what he imagined was beneath his stodgy corduroys, the sweet pumpkin bread he’d given Vince, the journal sharing back and forth, how _happy_ he was now that Howard was in his life--

And when he opened his eyes, the light bulbs on the desk were glowing as bright as they possibly could before bursting. The printer on the desk gave an electric sighing noise, and the building’s internet connection temporarily went down.

Howard watched Vince, mouth agape. He was utterly in awe. Most people had very benign gifts--they could predict which sports team would win, or summon a small breeze outdoors, or move water around with their mind. Generally, it was something very specific. But Vince--anything that ran on electricity was subject to Vince’s power.

“Wow,” whispered Howard. Vince met his eyes, coming back to himself, and the lights dimmed back down to their normal dull glow. “So when you said you were rubbish with electronics--”

“I break them all the time. Anytime I feel overwhelmingly happy or sad or angry or anything, if it’s plugged in, it breaks.” _That explains Vince’s slightly burning electrical smell,_ Howard’s brain supplied. Vince shuffled and cast his eyes downward, looking sad.

“Were you happy or sad just now?” Howard asked softly.

“Happy,” answered Vince, giving Howard a gentle smile.

“But that’s an incredible power. The entire world of electricity is your playground!”

“Minefield, more like,” Vince replied. “But I like the sound of Vince’s Electric Playground.” He and Howard shared a soft laugh before Vince asked, “What about you? Magical library powers?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just, I can tell when someone is lying to me. Or telling the truth.” Vince looked confused. Howard was used to this; it was a difficult ability to explain. He leaned forward again, even closer into Vince’s personal space. “Right, say a patron comes in and says the overdue fine they have is in error, that they returned the book on time and I made the mistake. I know that’s not true. Or say somebody gives me a poor excuse to leave a social function. I know that’s not true and they probably just want to get away.”

“Shit off, Howard, who’d want to run away from you?” Vince asked grinning. Howard chuckled.

“You’d be amazed how many nice young ladies have ended dates with terrible excuses. ‘I need to sort my socks’ or ‘I left the oven on,’ that kind of nonsense.”

Vince leaned forward, eyes rapt with attention. “How can you tell?”

“I just can. I can’t really explain it...it feels like,” Howard considered. “It feels like if someone poured warm treacle on your head and it trickled its way down your neck and settled there. Or just a warmth in my stomach. A lassitude, almost, just...acceptance.”

“Is that why it bothered you when I wouldn’t put my real name on the sign in sheet?”

“No, that bothered me because you’re a prick.” Vince guffawed, and Howard probably should have shushed him--would have done if it had been any other patron.

 

This was the kind of conversation they would have many times over the next few days, all while writing back and forth to each other daily via the notebook.

 

The following Saturday dawned gray, the clouds low and heavy with impending rain. Howard left his home early to run his errands: bakery, deli, apothecary. He always saved the apothecary for last. It was his favorite place to look around, but it was also the strangest shop in Dalston (which was saying a lot. Dalston was a strange little town).

Howard pushed open the creaky door and ducked beneath the dried herbs and flowers that hung from the ceiling. A small bell tinkled to signal his entrance. The proprietor, who went only by Naboo, appeared at Howard’s elbow

“Alright?”

“Er, yes. Just looking.”

“Want that beard oil you got last time?”

“Yes, I will take some of that.”

“Good. Need anything else, let me know.” And the small, mysterious little man vanished behind the counter, fetching Howard’s product.

Howard loved this store. It was full to overflowing and looked absolutely chaotic, but upon further inspection, everything was ordered. The soaps, shampoos, and tinctures were all on the shelf alphabetically, and Howard loved things to be on shelves alphabetically. Not to mention, the products were good. He wasn’t sure if Naboo made them all himself or had someone else do it (or purchased them wholesale and just repackaged them into etched glass bottles and vials), but they all worked amazingly well.

He had thought at first that the skill of potions-making must be Naboo’s gift. But the more he came here, the more he wondered. Naboo had a habit of knowing exactly what Howard wanted, sometimes even before Howard knew himself. Maybe he was a thought-reader like Fossil had once claimed to be. But Naboo wasn’t mad. At least, he didn’t _seem_ mad.

The smells of crushed herbs, lavender, spices, and dragon’s blood were heady in the air, and always made Howard feel drowsy in the most pleasant way. He grabbed a bottle of his favorite shampoo off the shelf, as well as a bar of amber-colored soap. He sniffed it--spices, lavender, something green, and something dark and musky. It smelled amazing, and he tucked it under his arm with his other purchases.

He circled the shop thoughtfully before approaching the counter. As promised, Naboo had his beard oil waiting. Howard didn’t have a beard, but he liked using the product on his moustache, of which he was very proud. It smelled nice and seemed to help it grow in thicker and fuller. Naboo rang up Howard’s items and placed them into a brown paper bag.

“Thanks, Naboo,” said Howard as he turned to leave.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” lisped Naboo. “We’re hiring. If you think of someone who wouldn’t be a complete ballbag, let them know, yeah?” And with that deadpan request, the little man disappeared into the back room.

Once again, Howard marveled at Naboo’s ability to know what Howard needed--or rather, what Vince needed, but Howard had been thinking about Vince’s dire job situation all morning. A place at Naboo’s would be ideal--there were no electronics for him to mess up. Naboo even used an old manual till. And he reckoned Vince would be good with hair and grooming--he looked like he knew lots about that stuff. He chuckled to himself as he exited the shop, bell dinging again. That Naboo--what an enigma.

 

Howard got home just as the rain started coming down. After putting away his purchases, he realized he had just a few minutes before the library opened. He grabbed an umbrella and made the short walk over. Predictably, it was dead. No one at all came in, not with the weather the way it was. At 5, Howard closed up and ran back to his house, dodging raindrops as best he could.

Shaking the rain from his hair, he lit the fire, sat in his chair, and started writing. Ever since he’d started sharing the journal, he found words came effortlessly. There was almost no struggle at all--the encouragement from the Angel of Poetry was enough to stoke his creative fire.

Evening bled to night, and the rain never let up. Howard had prepared himself a simple supper and made a pot of tea when with a crack of thunder, the lights went out. He wondered idly if he should go check the circuit box outside, but thought better of it. He didn’t need the electricity at the moment, he’d just wait til the rain stopped and go check it out tomorrow.

He walked around the small house, lighting a few candles as he went and decided this would do nicely. It was perfect writerly aesthetic: a cool night, storm outside, firelight the only illumination. It was perfect.

He sat by the fire, alternately dozing, reading, and writing, when he was startled by a frantic knocking at his door. He bolted up out of his chair, shocked and wondering who would be daft enough to be out in the middle of a storm like this. He wondered if he should open the door at all, when he heard a voice calling out, “Howard? You home?”

_Vince?_

Howard rushed over and opened the door and sure enough, the punk was standing on Howard’s doorstep looking for all the world like a pointy-faced drowned rat.

“Get inside, what are you doing?” Howard said gruffly, pulling the younger man into his home.

“Cheers, Howard. I was out today and didn’t make it home before the storm. Thought I’d try my luck, see if you were in. Do you mind if I wait it out here? Sorry to barge in like this.” Vince shivered a little. The slight motion, coupled with how small and soaking and delicate Vince looked, spurred Howard to action.

“No, no, it’s all right,” replied Howard. “Stay here, I’ll get you a towel.” He left Vince, dripping all over the flagstone floor, to take in the place.

 

It was _exactly_ how he’d imagined Howard’s place of residence might look: shabby but clean, antiquated but serviceable, cozy but entirely lacking in personality or color. He was pleased to note that Howard didn’t have loads of electronics--no television, no computer, nothing aside from the dark overhead light in the kitchen, a couple of darkened lamps spread throughout, and an old record player. The place was entirely warmed and illuminated by firelight. _Nice,_ Vince thought to himself.

Howard returned quickly, proffering a fluffy, beige towel. “Go sit by the fire, I’ll get some tea.”

“Cheers, Howard,” he replied, doing as he was told. He wrapped the towel around his shoulders like a cape and folded up his legs beneath him as he sat on the floor by the roaring fire. He felt warmth start to seep back into his bones, and it felt _good._ Howard returned momentarily, offering a cup of tea and a sandwich from the fresh bread he’d bought earlier.

“Here, eat something and warm up before you catch your death.” Vince grinned at that--Howard sounded like a mother hen. Vince devoured the sandwich and drank his tea happily as Howard sat back in his chair.

“Thanks, Howard, that’s genius.” He looked around. “No lights? Like it moody?” He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Howard cleared his throat and replied, “The power’s out.”

“Oh,” said Vince. “I guess that’s good, don’t have to worry about breaking anything of yours then.”

Howard chuckled. Vince’s hair was starting to fluff as it dried. Howard noticed that either Vince had no makeup on today, or it had all come off in the rain. He looked younger--much younger. And Howard couldn’t help but notice the faint outline of the bruise he’d seen on the night of the jazz lecture.

“What happened there?” he asked conversationally, gesturing to Vince’s pointy chin.

“Oh.” Vince ducked his head. “Just, er…” He bit his lip. He was going to say he’d fallen or something stupid like that, but then he remembered Howard’s gift and knew it was pointless. “Remember when I said the band didn’t work out?”

“Yes."  
  
“Well, Johnny Two Hats, the singer, made sure I had something nice to remember him by.”

Howard sat still for a moment, cataloging the information before his vision went red. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so angry. How could anyone punch Vince-- small, bedraggled Vince who sat cross-legged in front of him, the one with the sunshine smile--so hard that it would bruise so badly for so long? He exhaled through his nose, trying to quell the rage he was feeling. Vince caught on.

“It’s alright, Howard, I destroyed his amplifier and showered him with glass before I left,” Vince said cheerfully. Howard down at Vince, disbelief on his face, before the dull warmth in his stomach informed him that Vince was indeed telling the truth.

“Well, then it’s good you’re rid of him,” Howard spat, vision still hazy around the edges with his anger. “You can obviously do better than that lot.”

Vince chuckled darkly. “Can’t though, can I?” He picked nervously at his fingers as he continued, “ That’s where I’ve been all day, looking for work. Had no luck at all, and my rent’s due in three weeks and I’m not gonna make it, Howard. What am I supposed to do? Did you ever ask if the library would hire me? Would _you_ hire me, Howard? I could be your valet.”

Howard put up a hand to stop Vince, although the idea of Vince at his valet was one his brain had perked up at hearing, and he would examine it later. He took a sip of tea to clear his mind of _those_ images before continuing.

“Wait, you know that apothecary downtown? Naboo’s?”

“I seen it but I’ve never been in,” replied Vince.

“The owner told me today they’re hiring.” Vince’s eyes lit up, illuminating the room brighter than any of the candles did.

“Really? What kind of shop is it?” Howard described it to Vince, who lapped up every word with the eagerness of a child hearing a bedtime story. He told Vince about Naboo, the mysterious but not unkind owner, and described how there was almost nothing electronic there so Vince didn’t have to fret over that. The more he talked, the happier Vince looked and Howard realized he’d say anything to watch the change from sullen, panicky Vince to this entranced, beautiful creature before him.

_Beautiful? Christy, Moon, calm down._

Howard sat up in his chair, crossing his legs as he tried to maintain his dignity. “Go down tomorrow and ask for Naboo. Tell him you’re a friend of Howard’s.”

Vince nodded. “Am I? Your friend?”

“Yes,” Howard answered, not missing a beat. He continued softly, “Honestly, you’re about the only friend I have. Actually, I’ve never had company over since I moved into this house. And here I’ve sat you in front of the fire and haven’t showed you around or anything.”

Vince giggled. “S’alright, it’s well romantic here.”

Howard choked. “Erm, yes.” The pair sat in silence, Howard watching the fire, Vince watching Howard. Neither noticed the rain had stopped.

“Howard?”

“Mm?”

“You’re my friend, too. ‘Bout the only one I’ve got.” He rested a hand on Howard’s knee. “Thanks for telling me about the job. Seriously, thank you. I think I could sleep tonight, knowing there’s a possibility of something out there.”

The hand on his knee caused warmth to radiate through Howard.

God, it had been so long since he’d been close to anyone. When was the last time he’d willingly touched someone? When had his last hug been? He couldn’t remember. The dream he’d had about Vince before he’d even known his name came roaring back into his memory and he compared that with the picture before him. Vince, illuminated by flickering firelight, looking soft and small and beautiful, sitting on the floor before him, looking at him, Howard, like he’d hung the moon…

He wanted to kiss Vince, and the thoughts “no, he’s a man,” and “I don’t give a damn” warred for dominance in his brain.

“Things will work out,” Howard said softly, his voice gone a little gravelly. He smiled a little at Vince, who smiled back.

And then, the spell was broken immediately as Vince leveraged himself up and handed Howard back his towel.

“Cheers, Howard. And really, thanks again for the job tip, and letting me crash here for a while. I’m gonna get going.”

Just like that, in a whirlwind of movement and words, Vince was heading out the door, leaving only that crackling static sensation in the air and a lingering smell of smoke and sweets behind him. Howard followed and called out, “Have a good night!” lamely after him.

 

When he re-entered his house, Howard was stricken by an overwhelming sense of how dark and small and empty it suddenly seemed. The house itself seemed to sigh, bereft of the only real light and color to come into it in ages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratitude, as always, to blackmountainbones for being the best. 
> 
> I love the idea of this apothecary, and if I wasn't working in a library, this would be my #2 dream job. The soap Howard buys smells like Fred Hayman Touch for Men (or Neutrogena Rainbath, they're identical).


	7. The Second Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard gets some news. Mrs. Gideon returns. Vince makes a decision. Bob Fossil is still an idiot.

> _Dear Mr. Moon,_

> _It is our great pleasure to inform you that your poem, “When You Are the Moon” has been deemed worthy of publication by our esteemed board of editors. We would like to feature the poem in the upcoming Winter Edition of The Cream Society Literary Journal. Forthwith, all publication rights are---_

 

Howard dropped the letter, mouth agape in awe.

_Worthy of publication. Upcoming Winter Edition. Publication. Worthy._

He fought back tears of elation. _He was a published poet._ He had done it!

 

Well. He and the Angel of Poetry.

 

Howard wished more than ever that he knew who his mentor was. He wanted to tell them, to let them know that this merger had been successful, to thank them for having faith in him when he’d lost faith in himself.

A golden, tingling warmth spread throughout Howard and he realized: _this is joy._ For so long, he had coasted through life, merely surviving but not thriving. _This_ was thriving. This was hard work and longing and dreams coming to fruition. This was the benefit of partnership, he realized. It wasn’t always messy and heartbreaking. Sometimes, letting people in bore beautiful, glorious results.

It was at this moment of epiphany that Bob Fossil burst in, yelling in that grating American accent, “Holy buttcans, Howard! Someone left a bunch of those paper foldy boxes outside the door. What should I do?”

“Paper foldy boxes?” Howard inquired.

“You know, the pieces of paper that are held together with harder pieces of paper? The ones that live on the shelves in the other room? The flappy paper village people!”

Howard was well and truly puzzled. “Do you...do you mean books, Mr. Fossil?”

“Yes, of course that’s what I mean! Geez, what are you, King of the Hammock Munchers?” After this outburst, Fossil disappeared back to the children’s section to do God knows what.

 

Howard went out front and found three boxes of books, just sitting there. The library _did_ accept donations, but there was a receptacle inside the library for this purpose, and Howard never could figure out why people didn’t just do things the right way. However, he was still riding high on the cloud of publication, and this little setback wasn’t going to ruin his day. No, sir.

Howard spent the day sorting donations and re-reading his letter, and wondering furiously who the Angel of Poetry might be. He was surprised he hadn’t seen Vince yet, and it was going on four o’clock. Usually Vince showed up in the late morning and stayed til closing or after. Howard hoped that maybe he had gone and spoken with Naboo about employment.

At around 4:15, Howard caught the telltale whiff of begonias as Mrs. Gideon approached the desk. His heart skipped a beat--was it possible that she was here about the poetry? Did she know somehow that he had been accepted?

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gideon,” Howard said, doing his best to balance his smile between  “enthusiastic” and “creepy.”

“Oh, hello,” replied Mrs. Gideon. “Can you make twenty copies of this, please?” She slipped a piece of paper across the desk towards Howard.

“It would be my pleasure,” Howard replied chivalrously, even adding a slight bow. He stacked the paper--just a school worksheet--into the copy machine. “That’s 10p per page.” Mrs. Gideon fished around in her handbag for the money.

“It is ridiculous,” she began, gathering coins, “that teachers have to pay out of pocket for things like this just because their monthly copy quota has been met.”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely shameful. That’s the problem with the education system, not enough money for copies.”

“It’s even more ridiculous that I have to pay you for them,” she continued, ignoring him. “The library is supposed to be free? Let it all be free.” The scent of begonias soured as she placed the coins huffily on the circulation desk. Howard stacked the copies neatly and handed them to her.

“Do you enjoy poetry, Mrs. Gideon?” Howard ventured to ask. She wrinkled her nose as though he’d asked her “Do you enjoy eating raw anchovies for breakfast, Mrs. Gideon?”

“No, not particularly.” Ahh, so she was playing hard-to-get.

“Really? An educated lady such as yourself. You don’t dabble in writing partnerships?” he asked coyly.

“No. I don’t. I have to go, my husband is waiting for me. Thank you…” she squinted to read his nametag, “Howard.” And with that, she turned on her heel and exited.

Howard’s mind tumbled like a coin laundry dryer after this turn of events. He decided he needed to make himself some tea. Immediately.

 

He sat with his steaming mug, poring over the conversation he’d just had with Mrs. Gideon. Mrs. Gideon claimed not to enjoy poetry _or_ writing. And she had mentioned a husband. Surely if she were happily married she wouldn’t have to resort to secret poetry journal liaisons for attachment. Maybe she was unhappily married, then. But she looked disgusted by the idea of poetry. Then there had been her derision at the library system.

Howard was willing to overlook many things, but a disdain for the library system was not one of them, no sir. The library was the last real bastion of education, literacy, and democracy society had. Everyone else expected you to pay for something. Even trendy coffee houses that hosted book clubs demanded you purchase an overpriced drink before letting you use their space and WiFi. No, someone who did not understand the basic principles of libraries could not possibly be his Angel of Poetry.

Howard deflated a little. He’d been so _sure_ it was Mrs. Gideon. But she hadn’t even known his name.

So who was it, then?

 

Howard had just closed the library and was locking the gate when he heard a voice calling, “Howard! Hey, Howard!” He turned and saw Vince jogging towards him, a giant smile illuminating his face.

“Ah, Vince!” said Howard happily. “I wondered where you were today.”

“Yeah, I spoke with Naboo,” he said, puffing slightly as though he’d run all the way from wherever he was. “Wanted to get here before you closed, sorry I was late.” He rested his hands on his knees and caught his breath.

Howard took this time to get a good look at Vince. He wasn’t really dressed as a punk anymore--he was still wearing black drainpipes and boots, but they were flat, not high-heeled like before. He had on a brightly colored tunic replete with psychedelic patterns. His hair was still black and teased, but he looked...softer. Happier. More like an arts student than a stroppy punk musician. Howard decided he liked this version of Vince better.

“How did it go?” Howard enquired.

“Hired me on the spot. S’why I couldn’t come in today, he was training me up on all the things in that shop. It’s _genius,_ Howard, they’ve got summat for everyone and everything in there. Smells really nice, too. Naboo reckons I’ll work out fine there, and I had to come tell you because it’s really thanks to you that I got it in the first place.” Vince paused, cheeks flushed and wide eyes shining, and finally took a breath. “So, thanks.”

Howard chuckled. “Congratulations, Vince! I’m glad to hear it, and I hope it works out well.”

“Gotta be better than being onstage til two every morning,” said Vince.

“As it turns out, I have some good news of my own,” proclaimed Howard, puffing out his chest. He produced the acceptance letter and furnished it for Vince to read.

Vince knew what it was the moment he saw it, but he did his best to act surprised and shocked.

“Howard! Christy, you’re a real author now, eh?” The giant smile he gave was genuine--he was _thrilled_ that one of their poems had been published. Vince wasn’t surprised, exactly. He'd always known Howard had it in him. But he was chuffed all the same. “Wow, Howard! Congratulations to you, too!” The urge to throw his arms around Howard was overwhelming, but from what he knew about Howard, he didn’t think that’d be a good idea.

“Let’s go to the pub for dinner,” said Howard suddenly. “Since we’re both celebrating. It’s on me,” he added.

Vince smiled brightly. “Sure! Not every day I get to have dinner with a famous writer.”

 

Hours later, with his stomach full and his heart overflowing, Vince lay awake in his small bed wrestling with his thoughts.

_He had to tell Howard._

At dinner, Howard had waxed at length about how he’d received some writing help and needed to tell his benefactor, but how he didn’t know who they were. Vince had lapped up the whole story. Really, he figured he should give acting a go if the shop didn’t suit him. And poor Howard was so tortured over not knowing who his writing partner was. Vince had to tell him.

But selfishly, he was reluctant to do so. He didn’t want to lose this partnership with Howard, it was really all he had. And now that he and Howard had unexpectedly grown closer... it complicated things. Vince got up and pulled the notebook out of his messenger back. Howard’s last note simply read: **_We did it! Published in Cream Society Literary Journal, winter edition!_ **

Smiling sadly, Vince got back into bed, hoping that he and Howard could still be friends when he revealed it all tomorrow. He knew he had to, and Naboo had told him to come in at noon. That would give him the morning free to give Howard his confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bob Fossil's phrase, "Holy buttcans" comes straight out of The Mighty Book of Boosh. 
> 
> Gratitude to blackmountainbones, as always, for beta-ing and making this readable.


	8. That Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince tells the truth. Howard gets angry. There is a power outage.

Tuesday morning dawned gray and drizzly, the perfect English autumn day. Howard was wrapped in his elbow-patched tweed jacket and knit scarf, cup of tea at the ready, as he opened the library. He figured with the weather as wet as it was, it would be slow going. Bob Fossil had called in sick, too. That was alright, Howard figured. He had some new ideas for poems he intended to start sketching out.

True to his predictions, the library remained empty until Vince walked in.

“Ah, Vince!” greeted Howard. “Off to the new job?”

“At noon, yeah,” Vince replied, his smile small and a little sad. Shoulders hunched slightly, he reached into his messenger bag, and to Howard’s shock and horror, pulled out the green leather-bound notebook. He slid it across the desk to Howard.

Howard, not breaking eye contact with Vince, grabbed the book and held it close to him.

“Where did you get this.” It wasn’t a question. It was a growl, a threat.

“It’s me, Howard,” Vince said softly by way of answer. Howard shook his head, but...

There it was: that hot, heavy feeling of acceptance in Howard’s gut, like he’d swallowed something warm and uncomfortable and it had just settled within him.

The truth.

“No,” he said. “No, it can’t be. It’s not _you.”_

“It is,” said Vince, voice still deathly quiet. “I’m sorry, Howard, I--”

“You had...you had ample time to tell me and you never did.” Howard’s voice was pinched with the effort of keeping emotions from coloring his words.

“No. It never seemed like the right time,” said Vince as he chewed his thumbnail nervously.

“But you were...you were so _frustrating_ with that stupid punk behavior and always flouting the rules and--” Howard stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was standing now, though he didn’t remember when he’d stopped sitting. “You took my book, you _wrote_ in my book.”

“Yeah,” nodded Vince.

 _“WHY?_ What gave you the right?” Howard’s voice was raised now, definitely to a level unacceptable in a library.

“Nothing, that was wrong, I’m sorry, Howard, I--”

“You had _no_ right, sir!” Howard yelled, slamming a fist on the desk. Vince jumped visibly, but never backed down from Howard’s tirade. He ruffled his hair then rested his hands on the desk, bringing himself closer to Howard and looking him square in the eye.

“You're right, I didn't, just… I wanted to know something about you, Howard. All along I've been so... so alone and then you were there, funny and so square it made me laugh. I wanted to get to know you--”

Howard’s cheeks flushed with anger. “And invading my privacy was the best way to do that?”

“Howard, I’m sorry, I--”

“I made you laugh? Had a good laugh at pathetic old Howard, the lonely librarian, did you?”

“Please don’t be angry, I didn’t mean nothing--”

“Well, it meant something to me!” Howard shouted. He stopped, realizing what he’d said. And to his horror, Vince giggled.

Laughed. At him.

“Get out,” said Howard dangerously.

“Howard, please, I’m sorry. It meant something to me, too, I really liked writing with you. I wanted--”

“I said. Get out.” Howard was so livid he couldn’t have told if Vince was telling the truth or not, and frankly, he didn’t care. Rage consumed every other thought and emotion he had.

“You serious, Howard?” Vince asked, all traces of a smile gone, his eyes grown dark and slightly dangerous.

“Go.”

All the public computers went black all at once and the light bulb nearest to Howard shattered in its lamp.

“Get out, before you do any more damage!” yelled Howard. And without another word, tears stinging his eyes, Vince turned and left the building.

Howard kicked over his chair in a fit of pique. This was too much. _This_ was why he didn’t let people in. They were terrible--they saw him, they used him, and then they betrayed him. To his horror, he found his eyes leaking hot tears. He excused himself to the loo to try and regain composure.

He was glad the library was empty that day. He needed the time to sort through what had just happened. _Vince._ The punk, #1, was the Angel of Poetry. Not Mrs. Gideon, not someone like Tommy Nooka. Stroppy, whiny, small, childlike _Vince Noir._

Howard was so angry his hands shook. He _knew_ he shouldn’t have trusted him, knew the kid was trouble from day one. And yet....

The Vince he’d gone out with last night--colorful, happy, vibrant, caring Vince--was hardly the same person Howard had met months ago when he’d come to library to use the public computers, the one with a bad attitude and fake names and music that was too loud. Howard thought back to the night of the storm, to how fragile and _beautiful_ Vince had looked on his floor, how he had looked at Howard like he was a hero, a man to be admired.

Like he was somebody to love.

Howard could feel his heart breaking.

Vince, who had no one, who was alone in the world with a gift that ruined places and relationships, had let Howard in. And Howard, just as alone, and possibly more desperate, had opened himself up, too.

And they had written such good poetry together, each complementing the other as though they were separate hemispheres of the same brain. And yet, when Howard had said that it meant something... Vince had laughed.

That awful little _bastard_. He was probably off now, having a good laugh with Naboo over it.

Howard thought peripherally, _I can never never show my face inside Naboo’s again._

After changing out the lightbulb on his desk, Howard spent the rest of the day battling the storms raging inside his mind, the rain outside a perfect soundtrack to his own inner turmoil.

 

Late that night, a power outage blacked out all of Dalston. The news reporters blamed the weather, but only Vince, in his chaotic, smoldering, drowning sadness, knew the real reason it had all gone dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to blackmountainbones.


	9. In Between Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are sad. There is mutual pining.

Vince distractedly helped Naboo make hair products out of slimy seaweed and fragrant crushed lavender. His mind was on Howard all the time, every hour of every day. His hands moved independently of his mind as he cold-pressed bars of soap and wrapped them in brown paper and raffia. 

The lights, lifts, and internet in his apartment building hadn’t worked since  _ That _ Tuesday--the super needed to rewire the whole thing. Vince let his hair go flatter and flatter until it hung lank about his pointy, sunken features. 

_ Howardhowardhowardhoward-- _

* * *

 

Howard hadn’t written since  _ That _ Tuesday. The words, like his aching heart, had shriveled and dried up. His sleeves and fingers were free of the nearly omnipresent ink stains that were as much a part of his look as his moustache or his sweaters. 

The little carriage house took on the moldy, metallic smell of sadness. At night Howard sat before the fire, drinking more than he ever had and smoking cigarette after cigarette, remembering when Vince had sat on the floor before him, had  _ touched _ him, the memory so bittersweet it made his eyes run with salty tears.

* * *

 

Vince made his rent, but just barely. He couldn’t be arsed to care too much. The work at Naboo’s was good--it was interesting. Vince liked learning the different uses for plants and herbs, and enjoyed the artistic aspect of packaging. But everything was hollow. It was like he was watching himself go through the motions of life through the glass of an aquarium tank. Everything was hazy and empty. 

He missed Howard, missed having a friend, and was angry at himself for having fucked it all up so badly. He hadn’t  _ meant  _ to laugh at Howard. He’d just been so...overwhelmed. Of course it meant something to Vince, too. The whole thing had been  _ well  _ romantic. 

Vince knew he shouldn’t be surprised that he’d ended up alone. He always did. And yet that didn’t stop the whole unhappy ending from stinging terribly.

* * *

 

Howard’s dreams took on a nightmarish quality. Colors and images ran together--he had horrible visions of blue eyes and Fossil’s nonsensical ramblings and Naboo chasing him down with a flying carpet and Vince calling his name over and over--

 

Thirteen days later, he thought about going to Naboo’s to see if Vince was in, but doubted by now that Vince would want to see him again. Howard cursed himself for opening up the walls he’d so carefully built, for letting Vince’s beauty sway him into a false sense of intimacy and safety. 

_ Never again, Moon,  _ he thought to himself as he stubbed out another cigarette. His resolutions were meaningless against the cerulean eyes that appeared in his dreams every night alongside the words, “Alright, Howard?” along with that cheeky chin tilt, and cold, slender hands slotting effortlessly into his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to blackmountainbones for being a literal genius. 
> 
> The title is from a song by The Cure with the same name, only that song is really cheerful and this chapter is...not.


	10. Another Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince goes to the library. Howard makes a decision. There's a happy ending.

It was a Friday afternoon, and the sun was setting low and golden in the autumn sky. Leaves were every shade of orange and chartreuse and scarlet, and the light filtering through the stained glass window in the library tinted everything inside beautifully.

Howard was too weary to care.

He’d sent Fossil home early on account of the library being dead quiet, and was filing away today’s check out cards when a smoky, electric smell wafted in and someone across the counter cleared his throat. Howard recognized the fragrance and the sound of his voice immediately-- _Vince_.

Howard's heart lurched as he stalked over, afraid to make eye contact but unable to look away.

It had been two weeks since _That_ Tuesday, and Vince looked as bad on the outside as Howard felt on the inside. He was paler than usual and even more painfully thin, the sharp angles of his face hollow and noisy in their apparentness. His wide blue eyes looked watery with dark smudges underneath, like he’d been crying instead of sleeping for fourteen days.

Vince thought Howard looked shabbier than usual, if that was possible. The librarian’s hair was unkempt, like he’d forgotten he had it and had simply given up maintaining it at all. Stubble dusted the face that was usually so fastidiously groomed. His clothes, which were always slightly rumpled, looked ill-fitting and even more wrinkled than usual. He even _smelled_ sad--like cigarette smoke and whisky and petrichor. To Vince, he looked grayer, older, more careworn, and utterly tragic.

“Can you fax this for me?” Vince asked timidly, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

Howard took the paper. “Faxes are 50p,” he replied automatically.

Vince put the coins on the desk and Howard moved to the machine. He scanned the document looking for a fax number when he realized what it was.

“This is a change of address form,” he said.

“Yeah.”

Panic gripped Howard, but he tried to play it cool. “Didn’t work out at Naboo’s?”

“No, Naboo’s is great,” Vince said, smiling sadly as his eyes filled. “But... you know. It’s time. Got nothing keeping me here, really.”

Howard nodded blankly. He stared at the form in his hands. “Penzance?”

“Jus’ want a clean start is all,” Vince replied, sniffing a bit as he scuffed his shoe against the carpet to avoid meeting Howard’s eyes.

 

Howard stared at Vince. He was so beautiful, even in his sorrowful state. _Magical,_ his brain supplied. Vince was magical, even when he was like a flightless bird.

Howard's mind reeled with images of what had been and what could have been. _Endless cups of tea, firelight playing against sharp cheekbones, shared laughter, bright blue eyes full of adoration, chocolate chip pumpkin bread, two sets of hands scribbling crouched over a shared notebook--_

His heart, scarred and alone, thumped back to life in tandem with his brain. _Don't let him get away, Moon. It's not too late, for either of you._

 All at once, Howard’s mind was made up. For once, he had made a decision and he was going to follow it through like the Man of Action he claimed to be.

 

Abandoning the form, he walked around the desk and past Vince, locking the library. He came back and stood before the other man, looking down at him, at his beautiful icy skin and flat-bridged nose and breathtaking eyes.

“Don’t go,” Howard nearly whispered, voice thick with emotion. He couldn’t help his hands, the left one reached out of its own accord and stroked Vince’s lifeless feathery hair.

Vince leaned into the touch like a cat, closing his eyes and letting out a soft, shuddery exhale.  

“I’ve been a right arse, and I’m sorry, Vince,” Howard continued, one hand in Vince’s hair as the other reached for his hand. Still cold. _Warm heart,_ Howard’s brain supplied again.

Vince’s fingers curled around Howard’s, entwining with them, and once again, Howard marveled at how well they fit together. “I’m sorry, too, Howard. Should never have--”

Howard silenced him by pressing his lips to Vince’s.

 

The kiss was chaste and took both men by surprise. Howard pulled back, eyes wide as though he was shocked at himself for doing such a thing. Vince stared up with wide and dewey eyes--he was surprised, too. He fought back the instinct to tease Howard, to say something like, “Blimey, it were just poetry,” but thought better of it.

 

Finally, _finally,_ Vince wrapped his arms around Howard’s neck, and bridging the gap between them, closed his eyes and gave him a proper kiss.

 

Howard hadn’t been kissed in so long, he’d nearly forgotten what it was like, how warm and intimate and _good_ it felt. Vince kissed him gently, nibbling softly at Howard’s bottom lip and pecking the corners of his mouth. It was infinitely better than the dream version that had awakened Howard so many nights ago.

 “I’m sorry,” Vince whispered between kisses.

Howard pulled Vince into a tight embrace. Vince held on for dear life, clinging close to those broad shoulders he’d admired for so long, marveling at how correct his prediction had been: Howard did make him feel safe. Safe, and warm, and wanted, and whole.

“Don’t apologize. Don’t you _dare_ apologize,” Howard murmured into the top of Vince’s head.

All the lights in the building flickered on and off, strobing in time to Vince's erratic heartbeat. The printers shot out blank sheets of paper and the computers went dark and dormant. Neither man noticed.

“I should apologize to you,” Howard sighed, pulling back and drinking in those sky blue eyes. “I overreacted and I'm so sorry, Vince. The last month has been...the best of my life. Except for the last couple of weeks, of course. Please. Please stay.”

“If I stay, you will never get rid of me,” Vince said, a tiny smile creeping its way across his lips.

Howard returned the smile, cradling Vince's face in his hands. “That's alright,” he said. “I haven't got much on.” He leaned down and kissed Vince again before telling him, “Your help got me published, you berk. _You_ did that.”

Vince smiled. _“We_ did it, Howard.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blackmountainbones is the absolute best for putting up with this story from inception to birth. Thank you!


	11. One Year Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vince and Howard are happy. There are pancakes and love.

Howard placed the blue plate stacked with pancakes on the table alongside the pot of cinnamon tea. Vince, wearing his sheer floral kimono despite the autumn chill, sat down eagerly and tucked in. Howard took his seat across the table from his beloved.

“Cheers, Howard,” Vince said, saluting Howard with a bit of pancake on his fork. “You should write a poem about pancakes: eggs, milk, and flour…”

“Pancake power!” Howard replied. They both laughed warmly as they made morningtime smalltalk. Vince drained his tea in one and then retreated to the bathroom while Howard tidied up the kitchen.

This was their routine: Howard made breakfast before work, they left together in the morning, Vince had lunch with Howard at the library, and evenings were spent by the fire, writing, playing music, making up silly songs and stories, and generally being madly in love.

A short while later, Vince emerged smelling of lavender and amber, dressed immaculately as always, his hair defying gravity and logic. “Tell you what, this new root booster from Naboo is genius,” he said.

“It looks great, Vince,” Howard replied, placing a kiss on Vince’s cheek.

“Aw, I bet you say that to all the girls,” Vince replied, twirling a lock of said hair flirtatiously.

“No, sir. Just the boys.”

Vince made a scandalized face and slapped Howard’s ass before bringing him in for a proper kiss.

 

Vince had softened his look even further in the hazy glow of being cherished. He no longer smelled like frying electronics. The underlying smoky notes were still there, but these days he smelled of honey and lavender, sweet like bedclothes.  And Howard, who for the first time in ages had someone to care for him, smelled like lemon and bergamot and the musky smell of being loved. He’d even started dressing in clothes that fit now that he had someone to help him. Pashmina and merino had replaced the rough, scratchy fabrics that used to irritate Howard’s skin, an outer sign of his inward discomfort.

They’d been living together since New Year’s, shortly after their first poem was published. More poems had followed and other poetry journals had taken note. Howard had been offered a book deal through one of the leading poetry publishers in the country. He’d declined, insisting his writing (and life) partner, Vince Noir, be included. When the publishers acquiesced, the pair had celebrated.

 

Noisily, and vigorously, causing a two-day town-wide power outage.

 

Vince broke away first and grabbed his bag off his black and white chair in front of the fireplace. “Stop it, you sexy man-beast, I’m gonna be late to work,” Vince whined. The once plain mantel was lined with photographs and some of Vince’s paintings, alongside a framed copy of that first poem in place of pride.

“Can’t have that,” Howard replied, laughing. “Normal hours today?”

“Yeah,” said Vince, making sure he had everything he needed.

“Say hi to Naboo for me.”

“Will do. Don’t let Bainbridge and Fossil talk you into a corner today.”

“I’ll do my best,” Howard replied, still smiling. Crunching leaves beneath his boots, Vince walked through the threshold into the cool autumn day first. Howard lingered a moment, taking in his home.

 

The little carriage house was far more colorful, now: Vince’s black and white chair before the fireplace, the colorful rugs and pillows strewn throughout, the walls covered with Vince’s paintings. It was messier, too--teacups and paint brushes forever in the sink, the hall closet packed shelf to shelf with spare light bulbs, stacks of books and note paper on the end tables, bathroom shelves bursting with products from Naboo’s, candles dripping wax on nearly every surface. And yet, Howard smiled, his heart full and happy and overwhelmingly content.

 

Sometimes mess and color intruded on one’s beige and ordered world. And sometimes they brought love with them, and that made it all worthwhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless heaps of love and gratitude to [blackmountainbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones) for their help and support. If you haven't read any of their work, GO NOW.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read this entire thing. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!


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